Expedition to the Mountains of the Moon bas-3

by Mark Hodder

  He was interrupted by whistles sounding all along the frontline trench.

  “This is it!” Wells exclaimed. “The lads are going over!”

  To the left and right of the listening post, Askari soldiers-with some white faces standing out among them-clambered from the waterlogged trenches and began to move across the narrow strip of no-man's-land in the wake of the advancing harvestmen. They were crouching low and holding bayoneted rifles. Seeds from the opposing trenches sizzled through the air. Men's heads were jerked backward; their limbs were torn away; their stomachs and chests were rent open; they went down, and when they went down, others, moving up from behind, replaced them. Peas arced out of the sky and slapped into the mud among them. They exploded, ripping men apart and sending the pieces flying into the air. Still the British troops pressed on.

  “Bismillah!” Burton whispered as the carnage raged around him.

  “Look!” Wells yelled. He pointed up at the ridge. “What the hell is that?”

  Burton adjusted his viewer and observed through its lens a thick green mass boiling up from the trees. Borne on the wind, it came rolling down the slope and passed high above the German trenches. As it approached, he saw that it was comprised of spinning sycamore seeds, and when one of them hit the leg of a harvestman, he realised they were of an enormous size-at least twelve feet across. The seed didn't merely hit the spider's leg, either-its wings sliced right through it; they were as solid and sharp as scimitars. He watched horrified as thousands upon thousands of the whirling seeds impacted against the lofty battle machines, shearing through the long thin legs, chopping into the oval bodies, decapitating the drivers. As the harvestmen buckled under the onslaught, the seeds spun on toward the advancing troops.

  “Take cover!” Wells bellowed.

  Burton and the war correspondent dropped to their knees in filthy water and hugged the base of the observation pit's forward wall. Eight sycamore seeds whisked through the air above them and thudded into the back of the excavation. A ninth sliced Private Michaels' corpse clean in half. A green cloud hurtled overhead and mowed into the frontline trenches.

  Its shadow passed. The wind stopped. Burton looked up at the sky. The rainclouds were now ragged tatters, fast disappearing, and the blistering sun shone between them down onto a scene of such slaughter that, when Burton stood, climbed back onto the box, and looked through his periscope, he thought he might lose his mind with the horror of what he saw. He squeezed his eyes shut. Ghastly moans and whimpers and shrieks of agony filled his ears. He clapped his palms over them. The stench of fresh blood invaded his nostrils.

  He collapsed backward and fell full length into the trench water. It closed over him and he wanted to stay there, but hands clutched at his clothing and hauled him out.

  “Run!” Wells cried out, his voice pitched even higher than usual. “The Germans are coming!”

  Burton staggered to his feet. His soaked trousers clung to his legs; filthy liquid streamed from his jacket and shirt.

  “Move! Move!” Wells shouted. He grabbed Burton and pushed him toward the connecting passage. As they splashed through it, the little war correspondent lifted his bugle to his lips and sounded the retreat. With the urgent trumpeting in his ears, Burton blundered along and passed into the forward trench. It looked as if hell itself had bubbled up out of the mud. The sycamore seeds were everywhere, their blades embedded in sandbags, in the earth, and in soldiers. The troops had been diced like meat on a butcher's slab; body parts were floating in rivers of blood; and in the midst of the carnage, limbless men and women lay twitching helplessly, their dying eyes wide with terror and shock.

  As Burton and Wells raced from the foremost trench and made their way through the connecting ditches toward the rear, the smaller man blew the retreat with frantic desperation, while the taller, whenever he spotted a soldier still capable of moving, gathered wits enough to shout: “Withdraw! Withdraw!”

  Eventually they came to the final trench, clambered out of it, their uniforms red with other men's gore, and began to run.

  Burton glanced to either side and saw a straggling line of fleeing soldiers-so few! — then looked back and gasped: “What are they?”

  Wells said something but it was lost as a barrage of explosive peas came whistling down, punched into the ground just behind them, and sent up huge spouts of mud.

  The world slowed down, became utterly silent, and revolved majestically around Burton. The sky passed underneath. Men performed loose-limbed pirouettes through it. Some of the loose limbs weren't attached to the men.

  I have to be somewhere.

  The ground swung upward to meet him.

  Time resumed.

  The earth smacked into his face.

  He coughed, groaned, spat soil from his mouth, and lifted himself onto all fours.

  Wells was spreadeagled nearby.

  Burton crawled over to him. His friend was alive and conscious and his mouth was moving but there was no sound. There was no sound anywhere.

  Wells pointed at the trenches.

  Looking back, Burton saw the Schutztruppen approaching. One of the Germans was very near. He was dressed in a slate-grey uniform and his helmet was spiked at its crown. He held in his hands, like a rifle, a long seedpod with a vicious thorn dripping venom at its end.

  The Schutztruppen weren't human.

  Burton pushed himself backward through the mud, kicking his feet, trying to get away. He couldn't take his eyes off the approaching soldier. Though a man in shape, the German's head was deformed-his jaws were pushed forward into a snout, and his slavering mouth was filled with long canines. He was a tawny-yellow colour, and black-spotted, and his golden eyes had vertical irises.

  The name Laurence Oliphant jumped into Burton's mind, and in a flash he recalled a duel, a clashing of swords, with a man half human and half white panther. The memory was hallucinogenic in its power. He reached for his sword, looked into the thing's feline eyes, and whispered: “Good lord! What have you done to yourself?”

  When his hand came whipping up there was not a sword in it, but a pistol, and without even thinking, he pumped four bullets into the German.

  He watched as the trooper staggered, dropped the seedpod, and teetered to one side. The creature-a leopard given human shape-flopped to the ground. There were more approaching. Some of them were similarly formed from lithe jungle cats; others were bulky rhinoceros men, or vicious hyena things. Hardly any were fully human.

  Fingers closed over Burton's arm. He jerked free of them and scrabbled away before realising they belonged to Bertie Wells. The war correspondent was on his feet. His mouth was working, and faintly, as if from a long way off, Burton heard: “Come on, man! We have to get out of here!”

  A chunk of dirt was thrown up near his head. Something tugged violently at his wet sleeve and scored the skin beneath. It finally registered that he was being shot at.

  He pushed himself to his feet and, with Wells, started to run as hard as he could.

  They passed between two Scorpion Tanks whose tail cannon were spewing fire at the oncoming enemy troops. A pea smashed square into one and the war machine flew apart, sending shards of splintered carapace skittering past the two men.

  Burton's hearing returned with a clap, and the dissonances of battle assaulted his already overwhelmed senses.

  He and Wells veered to the right, ducked behind the swollen carcass of a long-dead mega-dray horse, and bolted through a field of broken wagons and wrecked wooden shacks.

  They ran and ran and eventually reached the base of the Dut'humi Hills.

  Seven British hornets, flying extremely low, came buzzing from behind the higher ground. They swept down, passed over the two men, and raked the battlefield with bullets. One of the giant insects was struck mid-thorax by an enemy cannon. It hit the earth and tumbled, enveloped in flames.

  At the edge of the undergrowth, Burton noticed a bright poppy-a red beacon amid the foliage.

  “This way!” he shouted, and
pulled Wells toward it. They threw themselves past the little flower and into thick purplish vegetation. Careless of thorns, they heaved themselves through bushes, climbed over twisted roots, ducked under looped lianas, and forced their way uphill until the frightful noise of conflict began to fade behind them.

  Vegetation snagged at and tore their uniforms. Wet leaves dripped on them, though they were already soaked to the skin. Still they kept going, passing over the brow of a jungly hill and down into a stinking swamp. They waded through it, thigh-deep, careless of crocodiles, and emerged onto firmer land where the terrain once again sloped upward. The vegetation was slightly less dense here, and they slowed to walking pace as they passed between tree boles, with a tightly packed canopy overhead.

  Burton noticed another poppy off to his left. He steered his companion in that direction.

  “There's a place I must go, Bertie.”

  “Where?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  A prickly and malformed plant to Wells's right twitched spasmodically. Milky liquid spurted from it and hit the sleeve of the war correspondent's greatcoat. The material immediately started to smoulder.

  Wells swore, ripped the garment open, and pulled it off, throwing it to the ground. He pushed Burton onward, leaving the plant and the coat behind.

  “Bloody Eugenicist creations are starting to sprout up all over the place,” he growled. “And they're all acid-spitting, bloodsucking, needle-shooting, poison-scent-emitting atrocities! Look at those, for instance-” He nodded toward the base of a nearby tree. Burton looked and saw a clump of bulbous white fungi.

  “Those are Destroying Angel mushrooms-the species they get the A-Spores from. Not native to Africa until the Eugenicists meddled with them. Now they're everywhere!”

  They steered carefully past a nest of pismire ants. They were natural, but nevertheless dangerous. Burton knew from painful experience that their bite was like the jab of a red-hot needle.

  For the next hour, the two men forced their way onward. Twice more, Burton saw poppies and altered his direction in order to pass by them. He did not mention this to Wells.

  Finally, with gasps of relief, they emerged into a small glade. It was carpeted with the bright-red blossoms, and in its very centre, upon a mound, a profusion of multicoloured flowers were thriving. A single beam of sunlight angled through tree branches and brightly illuminated the vivid reds, yellows, blues, and purples. The air was filled with pollen, which shone like gold dust in the shaft of light. Butterflies danced over the flowers. Everything was glowing with an almost supernatural radiance.

  “A patch of beauty, at last!” Wells cried. “My eyes can hardly bear it! And look-your favourite poppy is everywhere!”

  The two men threw themselves down beside the mound. For thirty minutes or so, they sat in silence, each dealing in his own way with the atrocities they'd witnessed.

  Eventually, Burton spoke: “What is it about you, Bertie, that attracts death from the sky? When I first met you it was the spores. Then it was bees. This time, sycamore seeds. What next? Boulder-sized hailstones? Acidic rain? Explosive bloody bird shit?”

  “Whatever else I might have to say about them,” Wells responded, “I can't deny that the Germans are damned creative.”

  “Unquestionably. What the hell were those Schutztruppen?”

  “The Eugenicists are turning animals into soldiers,” Wells replied. “Because they're running out of Africans.”

  Burton groaned. “So the loathsome treatment of this continent now extends even to its flora and fauna? I swear to you, I wish a plague would wipe mankind from the face of this world! How despicable we are!”

  The smaller man shrugged. “I don't think a plague is required-we're doing a pretty good job of it ourselves. You know, there was a time in my life when I fancied that we could all work together as equals for the good of the species, when I thought that our true nationality was Mankind. Now I recognise that I vastly overestimated the human race. We disguise imperialism as the spread of higher civilisation, but it's blatantly animalistic in its nature. We are no better than carnivores or carrion eaters. Having beast-men fighting this dreadful war is wholly appropriate.”

  He took a canteen from his belt and drank from it.

  Burton said, “I remember you saying that Palmerston was responsible.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you say the imperialistic drive is an animal impulse. Yet I can think of no one more divorced from nature than Palmerston!”

  “Pah!” Wells snorted. He handed the canteen to Burton. “Did it never strike you that in his efforts to conquer the natural in himself, he was merely signposting the trait of his that he felt most vulnerable to? All those Eugenics treatments he paid for, Richard-they were the mark of the Beast!”

  “Humph! I suppose.”

  “And where was nature better symbolised in your age than in Africa? No wonder this continent fell victim to his paranoia!”

  Burton shook his head despairingly. “I don't know how you can endure it.”

  “Somehow, I still have hope,” Wells answered, “or I could not live.”

  Burton took a gulp from the canteen. He coughed and spluttered as brandy burned its way down his throat.

  “I was expecting water!” he croaked.

  Wells watched two dragonflies flitting back and forth over the flowers. “It's ironic,” he said softly.

  “What is?”

  “That I'm fighting the Germans.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, for in some respects, since he seized power, Nietzsche has expanded upon the beliefs I held as a younger man, and I feel strongly drawn to his philosophy.” Wells looked at Burton. “You were right, by the way: Nietzsche did seize power in 1914 and Rasputin did die. According to our Intelligence agents, he suffered a brain haemorrhage. It happened in St. Petersburg, so your claim that you were responsible doesn't hold up-unless, that is, you possess extraordinary mediumistic powers, in which case I should deliver you to Colonel Crowley at the soonest possible moment.”

  Burton shook his head. “I have no such abilities, Bertie. So what is Nietzsche's philosophy?”

  Wells sighed and was silent for a moment. Then he said: “He proposes an entirely new strain of human being. One that transcends the bestial urges.”

  A memory squirmed uncomfortably at the back of Burton's mind. He reached out, picked a flower from the mound, and held it in front of his face, examining its petals. They did nothing to aid his powers of recollection.

  “The Greek Hyperanthropos?” he asked.

  “Similar. The term he uses is Ubermensch. A man free from the artificial limitations of moral codes.” Wells snorted contemptuously. “Moral codes! Ha! As much as we invoke God with our exclamations and curses, we all know that he's dead. Your Darwin killed him outright, and the concept of supernaturally defined morals should have died with the deity!”

  Burton held up an objecting hand and blew out a breath. “Please!” he exclaimed. “He was never my Darwin!”

  “He was a man of your time. Anyway, without a God to impose ideas of right and wrong, mankind is left with a moral vacuum to fill. Nietzsche's Ubermensch populates it according to an inner inclination that is entirely divorced from social, cultural, or religious influences. What blossoms within him is therefore utterly authentic. Such an individual will, according to Nietzsche, transcend his animal instincts. Furthermore, from amid all these singular standards of behaviour, certain common values will emerge, and they will be so completely in tune with the zeitgeist that human evolution will accelerate. God left a vacancy. We shall fill it.”

  Burton considered this for a moment, then said, “If I understand you correctly, the implication is that the zeitgeist, time itself, has some sort of beneficial purpose.”

  “Yes. Nietzsche posits that, through living as we do, we have impeded our proper relationship with time. We misunderstand it. We see only one aspect of it and we allow that to dominate us. It keeps us bound to t
he natural world. Only by becoming an Ubermensch can an individual grow beyond it.”

  The sky suddenly grew darker. The sun was beginning to set.

  Wells said, “You don't happen to be an Ubermensch, I suppose? You have, after all, somehow managed to defy the normal limitations of time.”

  Burton gave a wry smile. “I very much doubt that I'm anything Nietzsche might aspire to.”

  He reached among the flowers and brushed idly at a flat moss-covered stone. “Beresford. That's who I've been trying to remember. Henry-um-Henry de La Poer Beresford. Yes! The Mad Marquess! Bismillah! Bertie! This Ubermensch business is remarkably similar to something the creator of the Libertine and Rake movements came up with. He was obsessed with the idea of what he termed the trans-natural man, and he was inspired in that by-by-bloody hell!”

  “What is it?” Wells asked, puzzled.

  “By Spring Heeled Jack!”

  “By folklore?”

  “By Edward Oxford!”

  “Are you referring to the man who assassinated Queen Victoria?”

  “Yes-and no.”

  “You're not making any sense, Richard!”

  “I'm-I'm trying to remember!”

  Burton scrubbed furiously at the stone, as if cleaning it of moss might also clear his foggy memory.

  “The Libertines,” Wells said. “I believe they opposed the Technologists for a period but pretty much died out during the 1870s or 80s.”

  Burton didn't answer. He was leaning forward and frowning. Wells looked at him curiously then moved to his side. He reached out, pushed flowers out of the way, and, in the dwindling light, peered at the flat stone.

  “Are those letters on it?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Burton murmured. “There's some sort of inscription.”

  Wells reached into his pocket and pulled out a dagger. “Here, use this.”

  Burton took it and used the blade to scrape the moss away. Words were revealed. They read:

  Thomas Manfred Honesty

  1816–1863

  Lost His Life While

  Liberating the Enslaved.

  R.I.P.